


The Tree and The Voice

by This_is_a_sock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_a_sock/pseuds/This_is_a_sock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two things await him, which will he choose?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tree and The Voice

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit welcomed.

  It wasn’t a large field.

  It wasn’t a small field.

  It was a field that was beyond depth and length. 

  The farthest he could see, marked by a single tree, seemed as years away. Yet, at the same time, he felt as if he could raise a finger and brush the darkened bark.

  The field was covered in flowers. He had no sense of grass or even dirt below his feet. Millions? Billions? Both the hues of the flowers and the numbers of them were unfathomable. They held no scent. They did not move. 

  He wanted to reach down and pluck a single flower. To feel its petals, to grasp its stem. He wanted to kneel down, to lower himself among them and be cloaked in their color.

  It was what he wanted to do. 

  He could not.

  He knew that the field was for him. He knew that if he ran, walked, jumped, hell even _skipped_ , it would be as if youth had caressed him and granted him all the energy and vitality that abandoned him so long ago.

  The tree.

  The tree was holding something for him. It was waiting. 

  Somehow he knew that if he went to it, sat beneath it, pressed his back against its bark; he would find that which had been missing from the moment he was born. He would find everything.

  Yet.

  Yet his feet would not move. 

  Something was holding him still. 

  Something was breathing in his ear, begging him.

_Don’t go._

  Oh, but how he wanted to.

_Don’t go._

  Oh, but how the tree beckoned him.

_Don’t go._

  Oh, but how his very body ached to go.

_Don’t go._

  The tree was exactly what he needed.

_Don’t go._

  The tree offered shade.

_Don’t go._

  The tree offered rest.

_Don’t go._

  The tree offered contentment.

_Don’t go._

  The tree offered peace.

_Don’t go._

  The tree offered absolution.

  Absolution for his childhood. Absolution for his deeds. Absolution for himself. 

_Don’t go._

  He closed his eyes, he breathed in. He cast every thought, every desire, every part of his will, to move.

  He moved.

  The taste of fresh brewed tea. The feel of soft lips. The sound of bow against string. None of them, not one single satisfying or joyful moment equaled the sight, as he opened his eyes again, of the tree.

_Don’t go!_

  Who was that? What was that?

  He knew the voice. Somehow.

  The voice was as familiar as his own face. 

  “To whom do you belong?”

_Don’t go!_

  “That's not an answer.”

_Don’t go._

  “Why?”

  Why. Why was he conflicted? The tree before him offered him everything he ever wanted, all the things he had kept secured within him. 

_Don’t go._

  That damnable voice. It sounded so dark and broken. It had no place here. Here among the field and the tree and the peace. The voice was fear and agony.

  “I have to go.” 

_Don’t go. Please._

  That damnable voice. 

  The tree was fading, as if fog had crept around it.

  He wanted to run, to scream. He wanted to stop the voice. To stop the fog. 

  Yet.

_Don’t go._

  Just as he knew the tree, if he ever reached it, would offer him everything, he also knew that the voice could do the same.

  The voice would offer him joy. The voice would offer him absolution, the voice would offer him peace.

  The joy offered would be centuries away from the joy of the tree. The absolution would not be complete. The peace would never be anything resembling the truth of what the tree could offer.

  The voice would bring pain. The voice would bring conflict. The voice would bring hatred. The voice would bring anger.

  The tree, and oh how he knew this, would offer him love. Yet, the voice would give him a love that would negate, almost completely, all the pain and conflict, the hatred and the anger.

  The tree would give him an experience that was unfathomable. It would give him endless serenity.

  The voice.

_Don’t go. Damn you._

  The voice could no more be denied then the tree.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  The field of flowers, the tree, the lack of dirt and grass. Everything here was both exactly as it should be and exactly wrong.

  “Where am I supposed to go?”

  He hadn’t moved towards the tree. He was no closer. It was no farther.

  The tree, however, was far more faded. The fog had tightened.

  He moved again.

_Don’t go! I need you._

  Somehow, the voice was no longer a sound, but a feeling. It seemed to push him back. 

  The voice was so sad. He had read of voices sounding ‘lost’. He could imagine it. As with everything else in this place, he experienced something that he knew never existed before; he heard a lost voice.

_Don’t go. Please, please, please._

  He turned. 

  He did not look back. 

  He knew the tree, the field, and the flowers would wait. 

  He knew the voice wouldn’t wait. He knew the voice couldn’t wait. 

  He knew the voice needed him.

  He needed the tree. He needed the peace. He needed the joy. He needed to contentment. He needed every single thing the tree could offer.

  The voice, however, needed him. 

  It was very difficult to walk away. As the he walked forward, he knew that while the voice needed him; he needed it more. For everything the tree, and its extraordinary field offered; he knew the voice was finite. The tree was not. The tree would always be.

  So, he walked. As he walked, the flowers faded as the tree had. As he walked, darkness began to descend. Cold enveloped him. Pain filled him. 

  Brightness.

  Harshness.

  Loudness.

  Agony.

  Fear.

  Confusion.

_I made a mistake._

  A hospital. Doctors and nurses. Tubes and machines. 

  Pain. The pain, the pain.

_I made a mistake. I want to go back._

  It was fading. The tree and the field. The flowers. 

_Please, I want to remember, I want to go back._

  Where was the voice?

  “John?”

  Now he knew. He knew to whom the voice belonged.

_Sherlock, how dare I forget._

  “Oh, John.”

  The voice had a face. The voice had a smell. The voice had a feel.

_I didn’t make a mistake._


End file.
